Antidote Chapter 12 - Season of Hell

Jiyod awoke from a long dream.

His entire body was drenched in cold sweat, even the sheets were damp. A terrible headache pounded beneath his temples. He staggered as he raised his upper body.

The air in the barracks was chilly. It was still the dead of night. He realized that less than two hours had passed since he had fallen asleep.

It was the sixth day since Ipsen’s army had laid siege to Karlac.

Day 6 of Hell

Just the day before, Ida had come rushing from Auburn.

She had practically rolled off her horse, crawling towards Jiyod. Her long, disheveled hair snaked down her back and shoulders. Her face, drained of life, was pale, and her lips, dry and cracked, panted for air.

Jiyod knew he had to risk his life to return Kaisa to her. His head was hanging at Karlac’s gates, while the body of the once-mighty knight…

Jiyod lowered his head.

No one had witnessed Kaisa’s death.

The loyal man had spent a night in the underground prison, his tongue severed, before being executed at dawn. The charges: aiding in the murder of the High Lord and failing to serve his master. His head was displayed on the city walls, his body torn to pieces, left as food for the hounds.

The elderly mage had stared at her husband’s head for a long, long time.

When she finally crawled to the clay jar holding his head and lifted it in her hands, Jiyod had turned away.

Much later, she raised her head.

Her lips trembled.

“The… the Young Duke of Karlac…”

She glanced around.

“Where is the Young Duke?”

Her voice was bitter, trembling as if she was sobbing.

“Where is the Young Duke while his most loyal knight is torn apart and killed so miserably?”

No one could answer.

Because their lord was not here.

The one who had been dragged off first and imprisoned for the crime of parricide after going mad and killing his own father in a fit of fratricidal rage was their lord.

Urkal embraced her shoulder and helped her to her feet. “The Young Duke is not here,” he explained softly, but she shook her head, still looking around.

Jiyod slumped into his chair, weakly motioning to Urkal to take her away.

Urkal led Ida out.

Only after they left did her long wails begin to echo from outside the barracks.

Jiyod clasped his hands and pressed them against his forehead. The headache persisted, but he couldn’t afford to stop. There was still work to be done.

Snapping out of his memories, he stood and grabbed the water bottle from the makeshift table. He drank directly from the bottle’s neck, the cold water seeping down his throat and into his lungs, easing the pounding in his head slightly.

When the messenger from Anita flew in from Karlac, Jiyod had been in the quartz mines.

It was the place where he and Slan had first met. The place where Slan had first extended his hand and proposed they work together.

Three years ago, when Jiyod had slain the quartz mine’s beast, everyone thought the long hunt had finally come to an end. No one knew that it had not been just one beast, but a pair. Who could have predicted that the other one would resurface, overturning the quartz mines once again?

A hunting party was immediately formed. Besides Jiyod, Enrique and Urkal also joined the expedition. The deployment had been somewhat sudden, as Jiyod had left Karlac right after a heated argument with Slan over the Soedergran issue and immediately joined the hunt.

As soon as Jiyod heard the news, he withdrew his forces and raced back to Karlac, but it was already too late.

He was met with the firmly closed gates of Karlac.

And the heads of his comrades displayed on the walls.

Everything was too late. There was nothing he could do.

That news.

Like a burnt-out ember, the pitiful messenger bird clung weakly to Jiyod’s shoulder, whispering in a soft voice only he could hear. Anita’s last voice. Jiyod cursed the fact that it had been him, not Enrique, who had to hear it. That final, desperate voice should not have been his to bear.

Slan had a seizure. The dormant madness in his blood had awoken one night, consuming the rational mind of the once-cold and calculating High Lord. He had pushed his father down the stairs, killing him.

Jiyod didn’t believe it.

No one believed it.

But that unshakable trust didn’t change anything.

Slan had been dragged away and imprisoned in Helga’s Tower. A few knights who tried to intervene were executed on the spot. Jiyod had yet to even see Slan’s face. The gates of Karlac remained firmly closed. Jiyod had encircled Karlac, but that was all. With Slan inside the walls, he could neither attack Karlac nor retreat.

Day 8 of Hell

Outside the barracks, the soldiers’ murmurs could be heard.

Jiyod, deep in yet another endless, futile debate with Enrique and Ismion, looked up. All of them had heard the commotion outside almost simultaneously. The pale-faced mage placed his right hand against his forehead.

The debate was over.

They all stepped outside the barracks. The red sun was blazing as it sank behind Karlac’s western walls. The wind blew, pushing the clouds. The sky was a uniform crimson.

On top of the high walls, soldiers were bustling about like ants. Jiyod narrowed his eyes as he watched. Armored soldiers carrying bows were each hefting something. Firewood.

A sense of foreboding brushed through his mind.

Ismion, perhaps thinking the same thing, turned to look at Jiyod.

The glowing sun cast long shadows over the walls, where the stacks of firewood only grew taller.

Jiyod felt his headache returning.

Two knights appeared atop the walls, their armor gleaming. Step, step, step, step. The sound of metal plates grinding together echoed as they moved in perfect unison. Between them was a small, dark red object. Squelch, squelch. With each step it dragged across the ground, something oozed and dripped down.

A suffocating silence fell, as if submerged underwater.

Behind the knights, three mages in black robes followed.

Ismion gasped.

“Those are…”

The Inquisitors.

The two knights moved their left and right arms, handing over what they were holding to the heretic inquisitors. The inquisitors’ long, sharp hands, clad in black gloves, received the crimson mass and began fastening it to the large stake rising in the center of the pile of wood. As they worked, tar-like black liquid dripped from the mass, falling in steady drops. There was no movement, so no one realized what it was—at least not until the inquisitors brought out a massive hammer and chisel and began nailing it to the stake.

Thud! One of the inquisitors swung the hammer. The crimson mass twitched. Only then did they realize it was something alive.

Something alive—no, a person.

The flesh had been flayed, leaving the figure a raw red color, making it impossible to tell whether it was a man or woman, old or young.

But sometimes, between twins, there existed an unexplainable, unbreakable bond. Whether this was a curse or a blessing was uncertain.

“…Anita.”

Enrique murmured, his voice lost in a trance.

Jiyod was the first to hear the murmur. Instinct overtook reason, and he immediately lunged, yanking Enrique harshly by the shoulder. Just before Enrique reached the range of the arrows from the walls, Jiyod pulled him back. Thud, thud, thud! Three or four arrows embedded themselves in the ground at their feet.

“Let go, let me go!”

Thud! Thud! Thud! Thud!

The hammering continued.

“Anita! Anita! Aaaaaah!”

A desperate scream echoed. Jiyod threw himself over Enrique’s struggling body, holding him down with all his strength. Ismion rushed over, grabbing Enrique around the waist. Several other knights joined in, pulling at Enrique’s arms and legs. The screaming knight was dragged down, collapsing onto the dirt below.

The line where the wall met the sky turned a furious red.

One of the inquisitors straightened his back, tossing the bloodstained hammer onto the pile of wood.

Flames flickered and leaped into the air—the last blaze of the sunset. A soldier brought a torch, and the inquisitor accepted it. He held the torch to the oil-soaked wood, and with a crackling sound, the flames began to spread, licking at the logs.

“No, no… She didn’t use witchcraft… It was because of me, because I…”

Jiyod felt the strength draining from Enrique’s body as he muttered. With a rough gasp, he let go of Enrique’s shoulders, as if throwing them aside. Ismion panted heavily. Enrique’s knees buckled, and he stumbled. But as one knee hit the ground, the muscles in the other leg tensed, and he forced himself up. After all, knights only knelt on both knees when they were captured or dead.

At some point, Enrique snapped his head up.

His eyes were bloodshot. Burst capillaries stained the tears running down his lower lashes with streaks of red.

“A bow…”

He rasped out, his voice like steel scraping.

“A bow! Bring me my bow!”

Someone thrust a sleek, large longbow into his hands—a horn bow made from buffalo horns and six types of wood.

During the flooding of the Kövisto River, Jiyod had once gone hunting. It was a light-hearted pastime of the Karlac nobility—shooting ducks as they flew up from the reed-filled marshes. Enrique had shot down six ducks in one go with that bow, earning the title of the day’s victor.

Enrique grabbed the bow.

“Are you insane?! It won’t reach…!”

Ismion screamed shrilly. But by then, Enrique’s hand was already drawing an arrow from his quiver. The bowstring creaked as it bent, and veins bulged on the back of his hand.

The arrow flew upward.

Catching the last light of the setting sun, the arrowhead gleamed gold as it soared fiercely.

Thud! The sharp point pierced through a skull, the sound ringing out over the quiet battlements. A cry of pain and a groan erupted from somewhere. One of the heretic inquisitors fell to his knees, an arrow lodged in his forehead.

Enrique didn’t stop.

He immediately drew another arrow, nocking it to the string. As the bow curved, the second inquisitor fell. Enrique’s arms trembled violently, the veins in his neck bulging as sweat beaded on his temple. When he aimed his third arrow, a shower of arrows rained down from the battlements, but they fell short, landing at their feet. The last inquisitor, scrambling down in the opposite direction, took an arrow to the back of the head.

The last thing Enrique aimed at was the blazing pile of wood.

Execution by burning is excruciating.

Anita would not survive anyway.

Blood-stained tears mixed with the crimson of his eyes, drenching his cheeks.

His arm shook visibly as it strained to pull back the bowstring.

“I… I’ll do it!”

Urkal cried out, rushing toward Enrique and trying to grab his shoulder. But Enrique released the string.

Ah, yes, Enrique had to be the one to hear her last words.

Jiyod thought so.

Day 13 of Hell

The Duke of Karlac’s envoy arrived. He carried a letter bearing the seal of Karlac, an invitation for peaceful and moderate talks.

“It’s a trap.”

Ismion declared.

But they had no choice but to accept the invitation.

Jiyod left Enrique in command of the army and entered the fortress with only Ismion.

Inside the fortress, it was eerily quiet. There was no laughter, no lively voices. The leafless grapevines and orange trees swayed their bare branches.

A gust of wind swept through the empty courtyard, stirring the frost-covered sand and soil, carrying with it the stench of blood and rotting flesh.

The long corridor leading to the throne room was also enveloped in silence.

At the entrance to the throne room, two knights seized Ismion. He resisted, but their grip was firm, their faces expressionless. Jiyod entered the throne room alone, separated from Ismion.

Jiyod had no good memories of this throne room, but this was, without a doubt, the worst.

At the far end of the hall, a woman sat on the high throne, her posture leaning casually against one of the armrests.

She wore a vivid crimson dress, her black hair pinned up with golden chains and diamond-studded strings. Though she wore no crown, the jeweled headpiece glistened in the light streaming from the canopy above, casting a halo around her head. She appeared to be around forty years old. Who was this woman, sitting in place of the Duke of Karlac?

The answer quickly revealed itself.

“Lord Halden. The Lord of Ipsen has arrived.”

One of the Triad said to her.

Halden.

The Duke of Karlac’s sister.

At that moment, Jiyod realized everything. Why the woman was seated on the throne instead of the Duke of Karlac, why the Great Commander stood at her left side, why the Triumvirate bowed their heads before her, and why Slan had been seized by a madness he’d never heard of.

Jiyod raised his head and stared directly at her.

The woman sitting on the high throne tilted her head to look down at him.

They locked eyes for a brief moment.

A faint smile flickered at the corner of Lady Halden’s lips.

“Will you not greet me, Lord of Ipsen?”

“As far as I know, there is only one person in Karlac who can receive greetings in this hall.”

“My brother is ill.”

“That’s not reason enough for you to sit in that seat.”

“Well, you aren’t even a knight of this court, and you’ve entered it with your sword drawn. So let’s not worry about the small things.”

With that, Lady Halden raised her right hand, slightly tilting her fingertips backward. Simultaneously, the doors to the throne room reopened. The sound of armored feet stepping on marble echoed. Jiyod turned to look behind him.

His breathing quickened ever so slightly, and the line of his brow furrowed just a touch.

Two court knights were dragging Slan inside.

Jiyod almost called out his name.

Perhaps, if their eyes had met, he wouldn’t have been able to stop himself.

But Slan did not look at him. His gaze was drifting through the air. He wore a long, dark blue robe, wrinkled and covered in dust from the sleeves to the hem that touched the floor. His hair was a tangled mess, falling over his back and shoulders. His lips were cracked, and a faint trace of blood was visible. His cheeks were pale. But more than anything, his eyes—Jiyod remembered the way Slan’s blue eyes had once gleamed like flashes of lightning beneath the night sky. Now, those eyes wandered lifelessly. His pupils were unfocused, and his irises had lost their shine.

Jiyod could hardly believe this was Slan.

He almost groaned in despair but managed to hold it back.

The knights dragged him to the front of Jiyod, releasing his arms. As soon as they let go, he collapsed forward. Jiyod turned his head once more. Lady Halden watched them silently.

“Not quite the reunion I expected between master and servant.”

“Ha. Were you hoping for a tearful embrace?”

“Well, from what I’ve heard, I wouldn’t have been surprised by more. Quite an amusing rumor, don’t you think?”

Her voice was dry and emotionless.

Jiyod struggled to suppress his hatred. The Great Commander and the Triumvirate stood on either side of Lady Halden, and behind him, the court knights were all lined up with their swords drawn. He couldn’t afford to provoke them.

“…What have you done?”

“Done? What do you mean?”

Lady Halden shrugged.

“It wasn’t me. It was Slan. Our dear Young Duke of Karlac.”

Jiyod didn’t bother to deny her words. The victor always rewrites history. Lies become truth, and truth becomes lies.

“Hmm. What should I do with our young duke?”

Lady Halden rested her delicate fingers on her chin.

“He has committed grave sins, but he is also a High Lord…. Execution would be too severe, don’t you think, Great Commander?”

She turned to look at the Great Commander. He gave a slight bow instead of answering. Lady Halden shrugged. She turned her head the other way.

“It was foolish of me to ask a knight about politics. So, let me ask again. What do you think I should do? I trust the lionheads of our council will give me a wise answer.”

“Executing a High Lord is unprecedented, Lady Halden.”

“Stripping him of his title and confining him to the Tower of Helga should be sufficient.”

“What about the army outside Karlac’s walls? Isn’t that also the High Lord’s doing?”

“The crime of patricide compounded with the murder of another High Lord is grave. Fratricide is the greatest taboo.”

“It is indeed a grave crime.”

Lady Halden turned once more to look down at Jiyod.

Jiyod stared at her gleaming golden shoes. He had to focus on them—otherwise, he wouldn’t be able to resist the urge to tear her apart.

After a moment, Jiyod finally spoke, his voice barely a whisper.

“…There is room for negotiation. Isn’t that why you called me here?”

“Negotiation, you say. I haven’t even heard what it is you want yet.”

“Spare him.”

Jiyod answered without hesitation.

“Spare the Young Duke of Karlac.”

“Ah.”

That vague response reminded him of Slan. As he felt the blood connection between her and Slan, Jiyod was consumed by a violent surge of hatred that made the hair on his body stand on end.

“Spare him….”

Lady Halden’s expression remained emotionless.

“Then…”

She looked down at Jiyod with that same dry expression.

“What will you offer in return, Lord of Ipsen?”

“I will withdraw my army immediately.”

Lady Halden stroked her chin with her fingers. It was clear she wasn’t satisfied with his answer.

“Life for life….”

An old saying of Karlac. Jiyod had always hated that saying.

“A knight’s life is his sword. How about this? Your left arm as payment?”

He didn’t hesitate.

If he could save Slan for the price of just one arm, it was a cheap trade.

Day 21 of Hell.

“Are you feeling more awake?”

Ismion’s voice woke him.

Jiyod opened his eyes and looked around. He was in a spacious room without windows. It was dark and chilly. Ismion stood beside the bed, leaning over to look down at him. The lamp behind him cast an ominous, eerie silhouette over his face. Jiyod swallowed his breath and reached out with his right arm to push Ismion’s face away.

“Why, why are you like this! You brute!”

Ismion yelled.

His voice hadn’t changed from before, and Jiyod felt a quiet sense of relief.

“I thought you were finally going to offer me as a living sacrifice….”

“What’s that supposed to mean!”

A furious response came.

Jiyod attempted to sit up, only to realize his left arm was gone, causing him to pause for a moment. Instead, he slowly used his right arm to push himself up from the bed.

Ismion approached again, placing a hand on his forehead.

“No fever. That’s good.”

“Yeah.”

“I’m no expert in medicine though…”

Ismion grumbled something more, but Jiyod got up fully and stepped off the bed. A brief wave of dizziness washed over him but quickly subsided. He clenched his right hand into a fist several times since his left hand was no longer there. His sword leaned against the wall next to the bed. Jiyod grasped the hilt with his right hand. It felt slightly awkward. Ismion pretended not to notice as Jiyod awkwardly strapped the sword to his waist with slow, deliberate movements.

They spent time doing nothing in the empty room.

Ismion occasionally babbled useless nonsense, as if nothing had happened between them, as if this were just a nightmare and, once it was over, they would return to their peaceful and comfortable haven. As if Slan would be there, standing as if nothing had happened. If not that, then as if Slan would suddenly appear in a flash, just as he had saved Jiyod at Roxburgh Gorge and Ismion from the unjust trial, and once again rescue them.

In the early morning, someone faintly rattled the door.

Ismion, curled up in the corner of the bed, was too deep in sleep to hear it.

Jiyod, leaning against the wall, idly stroking the hilt of his sword, turned his head toward the sound. The door rattled once more. It was clearly not the wind.

Jiyod approached the door.

The door rattled again.

Ismion seemed to stir awake, raising his head drowsily.

Jiyod grasped the doorknob and opened it.

Standing in the doorway was a knight dressed in a tunic and cloak. Jiyod recognized her. It was Lisbeth, one of the court knights who had been lined up in the audience chamber when he met Lady Halden a few days ago.

“Has the execution been decided? Seems you’re working hard even before dawn, Lady Knight.”

Jiyod’s voice carried a slight sneer.

Lisbeth did not reply. She briefly scanned Jiyod up and down, her green eyes showing an astonishing lack of emotion.

“Come with me.”

She motioned with her chin, and Jiyod shrugged. The gesture was slightly unbalanced due to the missing half of his left arm, but the intent was clear. Lisbeth looked up at him silently.

“If you want to see your master, follow me.”

At her words, Ismion hurriedly pushed past Jiyod, rushing out the door.

Once again, they had no choice. But even if it was a trap, what difference did it make? There was nothing left to lose.

Lisbeth led them outside the building.

It was still closer to night than dawn. Snow gleamed faintly along the outline of the walls and buildings. Frost had formed between the tiles, making the ground slippery.

After passing unnoticed through courtyards, corridors, long narrow passages, and a few gardens, they arrived at the base of a towering structure. Helga’s Tower. Its peak was shrouded in the faint winter mist. A desolate wind howled as it battered the tower’s outer walls, causing a low, resonating hum.

“This place…”

Ismion murmured.

Lisbeth entered first.

Two guards holding spears stood at attention at the entrance, but upon seeing Lisbeth, they bowed their heads quietly.

The stairs were steep and narrow enough to allow only one person at a time. The stone railing seemed worn and fragile, as if it might crumble at any moment. Ismion missed a step on the narrow stair ledge, sending a cloud of stone dust tumbling down. The fine, white fragments scattered and disappeared along the winding staircase.

Finally, they reached the last step.

Lisbeth pulled a large key from inside her cloak. Both the key and the keyhole were rusty and worn from disuse. The key turned with a grinding, reluctant screech. Ismion swallowed nervously. The door creaked open.

Jiyod didn’t know what he had expected to find inside.

Had he thought Slan would be sitting upright, glaring at him as he had before?

“Ah… ah… ahhhh…”

Ismion’s knees buckled, collapsing to the floor.

He clawed at the stone floor, crawling forward.

A bitter wail escaped from the young sorcerer’s lips. His hand reached out to grasp a limp, pale fingertip. Ismion’s head dropped forward. A thud echoed as his forehead hit the stone floor.

“Young Duke of Karlac… what have they done to you…?”

There was no response from Slan, whose naked limbs lay sprawled out like those of a slaughtered animal. Ismion clutched his cold hand. Tears dripped down onto it.

Jiyod stood there, quietly watching.

The sobbing sorcerer and the naked, fallen High Lord. Cold air seeped in through the cracks between the bricks. A low, resonating hum vibrated through the entire room. The floor was uneven and filthy. Slan’s body was covered by a tattered, dirty blanket. It was too small even to cover his slim frame. One pale, bare foot stuck out from under the blanket. Jiyod had once kissed that foot, thinking that even silk might be too rough for this skin. He had once trembled, afraid his hands or lips might wound him.

He recalled the vast plain beyond the Grand Canyon that he had once seen with Slan.

The blue, undulating plateau and the faintly shimmering horizon.

“Dreams, hope, and miracles—they exist.”

Slan had said, looking up at him with bright, gleaming eyes as they rode together on horseback. Jiyod had let out a small, incredulous laugh, and Slan had chuckled in response, poking Jiyod’s chest with his finger.

“Right here.”

No.

He was wrong.

If such things existed, none of this would have happened.

If such things existed, Kaisa’s head wouldn’t have been cut off, Anita wouldn’t have been burned alive, and Enrique wouldn’t have shot his twin sister with his own hands.

There would be no weeping Ismion here, no Jiyod with a missing arm, no Slan lying abandoned like a wretched corpse. Never.

Jiyod lowered his gaze to his feet.

He raised his right hand.

The empty sleeve of his left arm fluttered.

Then he gritted his teeth, raising his chin to stare at the ceiling. Yet, despite his efforts, the tears he couldn’t hold back overflowed, streaming down his lower lashes.

It was all his fault.

That night, if only he hadn’t stormed out, none of this would have happened. Slan wouldn’t have sent Ismion to him, and all this tragedy might have never occurred in the first place.

He lowered his gaze.

Beyond Ismion’s trembling shoulders, he could see Slan’s eyes. Half-open blue eyes, dull and dim, like stars that had lost their light.

At that moment, a vision flashed through Jiyod’s mind—a knight who had drawn a bow against his own twin sister.

His left shoulder twitched slightly. After a moment, he awkwardly gripped his sword’s hilt with his right hand. While gripping the sword, he looked down at Slan. Perhaps their eyes met. Jiyod wasn’t sure.

Maybe.

Maybe it would be better for this man to die here.

The tendons in the back of his right hand, gripping the hilt, bulged.

Before more suffering, it might be better…

“Lord of Ipsen.”

At that moment, a quiet voice nearly caused Jiyod to draw his sword. The only reason he didn’t was that he wasn’t yet accustomed to drawing with his right hand.

Lisbeth was looking at him.

For the first time, Jiyod could read the traces of pain, regret, guilt, and countless other emotions on the previously expressionless face of the seasoned knight. She furrowed her dark eyebrows and spoke.

“If you’re alive, you can still do something.”

“…Ha.”

Jiyod tried to scoff at her but failed.

At that moment, she reached out and firmly grabbed his wrist, the one holding the sword’s hilt. Jiyod had seen her before—back when she was still called the finest knight in Karlac. If she had grabbed his left wrist instead, she wouldn’t have been able to stop him.

“I bear responsibility for this too. So let me… let me help you.”

“Help me?” Jiyod replied with a sharp, metallic tone.

“How? By what loyalty? By what right do you even dare to look at Slan now?”

His voice grew rougher, eventually turning into an enraged shout.

“Glenberg was at Karlac Castle that night! There were two court knights there! How could no one have noticed this? How can you stand here with your head held high now?”

“I….”

Lisbeth was breathing heavily.

She released Jiyod’s hand and stepped back.

“I have nothing to say about that. I’m sorry.”

“Sorry? Ha! What a heartfelt apology, Lady Glenberg. I’m sure Slan would be thrilled. And Kaisa, who once fought back-to-back with you on the battlefield, would certainly be pleased to see this.”

“I will get Slan out of here.”

At that moment, Jiyod was rendered speechless.

Despite his rage, the person who could help most right now was Lisbeth.

“…How?”

“By whatever means necessary. I promise to take him out and offer him my protection.”

Lisbeth spoke quietly.

“I’ll stop Lord Halden too. I won’t let him harm Slan.”

“Is that possible?”

“But I need you to do something.”

Jiyod wanted to mock her, but instead, he restrained himself and asked, “What is it?”

Lisbeth looked up at him.

“Lift the siege on Karlac and head to Alto, Lord of Ipsen. Right now, we need to reassure Lord Halden and the Triumvirate. And your father too.”

Another war. It didn’t stir any emotions in Jiyod, as he was already familiar with the concept.

He stared into Lisbeth’s eyes.

“Fine. But….”

“I’ll get Slan out of here. I’ll protect him from Lord Halden.”

Though Jiyod couldn’t fully trust her, he had no other choice. He nodded.

Before leaving, he removed his cloak and wrapped it around Slan’s body. He wanted to kiss him, but he feared his lips would wound him, so he refrained. Leaving Slan behind in Helga’s Tower was an excruciating decision. Dying together seemed almost like peace in comparison.

Day 25 of Hell

Leah had succeeded in rescuing Anuka and Yofius from Karlac Castle. Or rather, it was half a success. She only managed to bring back a living Yofius and the corpse of Anuka.

Anuka had been the first to run to Slan’s secret study when everything happened. She burned the map and tucked the designs for the great arch into her robe. However, soldiers were already surrounding the exit of Guntram’s mansion. She was arrested for attempting to smuggle out a map of Karlac Castle. What followed was a torture session with a predetermined outcome. Where had she sold the map of the castle’s interior? Who had the Young Duke of Karlac conspired with? Was he planning a rebellion? Yofius was captured while trying to save her. Anuka endured eleven days of torture, but on the twelfth day, the interrogators placed her inside the Iron Maiden and sealed it shut.

After her death, the interrogators began torturing Yofius. He lost his right eye, the ring and index fingers on his left hand, the thumb on his right hand, and six toes. Nevertheless, when Leah opened the door to the underground prison, he was still alive.

Since Leah bore the Inkery seal, she took Yofius and Haynes to York.

The elderly treasurer tightly grasped Jiyod’s hand.

“Let’s go together, Lord of Ipsen. We’ll regroup in York and return.”

Jiyod refused.

Day 37 of Hell

On the road to Alto, Ismion looked quietly at Jiyod and said,

“I may be able to fix your arm.”

It didn’t matter if it was sorcery or black magic. Anything was acceptable, as long as he could regain his left arm. Even if it meant no longer being human.

Day 173 of Hell

The civil war in the northwestern region of Alto had plagued Karlac for over twenty years. The humid air from the nearby sea caused weapons to rust, and epidemics spread. Despite the fierce fighting, the gray sea remained calm. In its waves, Jiyod smelled the familiar scent of war and death.

An unexpected visitor arrived.

A hunchbacked man with a gleaming glass eye in his right eye socket came to see him.

“If you want to control an army, you need money, Lord of Ipsen.”

“Our new lord is so generous that he’s sending massive military funds even to this remote battlefield. At least we can give the soldiers a piece of steel on their way to death.”

Jiyod replied nonchalantly.

Yofius looked up at him.

“I’ve come to know some merchants in York. They want to trade with the North via Ipsen. We could earn enormous brokerage fees through Ipsen’s main port. It’s nothing like the old salt smuggling! You can gather mercenaries again and grow the army!”

“Opening our waters to another nation without permission is illegal.”

Jiyod bluntly retorted and stood up, signaling the end of the conversation, but Yofius called out to him.

“Hey!”

His voice turned harsh.

“You bastard! Ungrateful beast! Have you already forgotten that miserable day? How Lord Slan took you in and saved you….”

Jiyod unsheathed his sword in an instant. Not a sound was made.

Yofius glared at him with the blade pointed under his chin. His left eye was bloodshot and reddened, while the glass eye in his right socket glinted. Jiyod glanced at Yofius’ short, fingerless hand.

After a moment, Jiyod sheathed his sword.

Yofius collapsed to the ground, panting heavily, and stammered out a question.

“Th-that left arm… What happened to it?”

Jiyod sat down again.

Leaning his left elbow on the armrest, he gazed at Yofius. A faint smile appeared on his lips.

“Let’s go back to that story. Tell me again about the Ipsen main port and those pig merchants from York.”

Day 455 of Hell

The operation to cut off the Alto army’s supply route was successful. However, after a fierce field battle, Jiyod lost his prized horse. A chain-wrapped mace had tangled around the horse’s legs, breaking its knee, and the massive animal collapsed. Jiyod narrowly escaped being crushed. After stabbing his sword into the throat of the enemy who had thrown the chain, he turned back to his fallen horse. The armored warhorse flailed on the ground in a desperate struggle. Jiyod remembered the time when Slan had gladly given him this steed.

He ended the horse’s pain by severing its neck, perhaps doing what he wished he could do for himself.

Day 481 of Hell

The main forces of the Alto army were crushed. The enemy retreated to their last remaining fortress, shut the gates, and began a siege.

When Jiyod returned to the camp, he heard that Enrique had fallen.

The crossbow, designed to counter Karlac’s heavy cavalry, could fire five massive bolts equipped with thick arrowheads and chains. These bolts sometimes pierced through armor, and even when they didn’t, they entangled the legs of warhorses, causing them to fall and unseat their riders. Once a rider was unhorsed, it was over.

Finding the body was a miracle in itself.

Ismion’s magic hunting dogs roamed the battlefield and eventually found Enrique beneath a pile of corpses and broken spears. Hundreds of spears had pierced his armor, and it took a long time to pull them all out to recover his body.

Jiyod could no longer recall the past. The times they had laughed together in Slan’s dining hall, the times they had hunted ducks along the Kövisto River with Karlac’s nobles, or when he had kicked Ismion’s chair in the glasshouse.

This moment reminded him of Tesfaya and Passique.

Time became tangled like a twisted thread. The days spent in Karlac seemed like the dreams of a drunkard or the hallucinations of an addict. Jiyod stared blankly at Enrique’s body burning in the flames.

Ismion threw Enrique’s longbow into the fire.

The flames grew fiercer, consuming everything.

Day 546 of Hell

Yofius continued to send updates. His army was now well-supplied. Jiyod decided to buy steel from the trading ships passing through Ipsen, a decision Yofius was quite pleased with.

It had been over two months since they had surrounded the main forces of Alto. Although the victory in the Alto civil war clearly favored their side, permission to end the war had not been granted, so the war dragged on as a tedious battle of attrition. Jiyod recalled Slan’s discussions about siege warfare.

Word came that Lea had seized Archibald’s marble mines. Although she disguised her identity and her army as mercenaries, it wouldn’t be long before Karlac took notice. Instead of a direct rebuke, Karlac imposed massive taxes on Ipsen. At the same time, many eyes were newly fixed on Jiyod.

However, with some special techniques Ismion possessed, and a few interesting methods Jiyod himself had learned, they managed to evade those watchful eyes. Ismion had connected a few of his magical optic nerves to Jiyod’s left arm. The demonic veins flowing through his left arm relayed the vision from the magical eyes to the back of his own. It was a strange sensation for someone like him, who was not a magician, but he soon grew accustomed to it. Of course, there were risks. The more frequently he used the demonic power, the faster the demonic blood eroded his body. Ismion had warned him several times.

“You must remain vigilant. The moment the demon invades your brain, it will be too late.”

Every time he heard those words, Jiyod thought of the demon he had beheaded in the quartz mine.

It was that very demon that had returned his left arm to him, giving him the strength to fight again.

Even if it meant that, with each passing day, he became less and less human, it was a price he was willing to pay.

Day 604 of Hell

The gates of Alto opened, and a white flag was raised. It was the sixth white flag.

Jiyod ignored it and did not lift the siege.

That night, when the sixth white flag was raised, Ismion came to his tent with a furious expression. In truth, the magician rarely smiled, and after the events two years ago, he carried himself as if he brought storm clouds and rain wherever he went, so it wasn’t all that unusual.

“We need to reconsider the alliance with Glenberg.”

Jiyod glanced past Ismion’s shoulder. Through the half-open entrance, he could see the gray sky, with raindrops falling. Soon, the flap of the entrance dropped, blocking out the gloomy sky.

Ismion shook the rain off his wet shoulders and tilted his head, glaring at Jiyod.

“Did you hear me?”

His voice was sharp. Jiyod shrugged.

“When was the last time you heard from Madam Lisbeth?”

“Not long ago.”

The last contact, like all previous ones between them, was about Slan. “Don’t worry. He’s doing fine. The medication seems to be working well. Enric is a brilliant wizard.” Though the words were always the same, Jiyod believed them. It wasn’t like he had any better choice, especially since the agents he had planted in Karlac Castle also reported the same thing every time.

Jiyod tossed the oil-soaked cloth he had been using to maintain his sword onto the table. For a moment, half of his face reflected on the gleaming blade, then disappeared as he flipped the sword over. He stared at the sword quietly—a famous blade from the North, brought by Anuka and handed to him by Slan. The bright blue surface shimmered as if soaked in blood. Every time he looked at it, Jiyod was struck by the vivid reminder that his days in Karlac were not just delusions or hallucinations.

The sword slid silently back into its scabbard. Clenching the scabbard tightly, he stood up.

“Why Glenberg?”

His voice was calm, but his eyes were as sharp as the sword he held.

Ismion took a step back.

“The informant we sent to Karlac Castle…”

Ismion’s lips twitched with a quick, brief spasm.

“It seems Lord Slan isn’t entirely following that woman’s instructions.”

Though his voice was cold and low, it wavered like the melody of an incompetent musician.

“Do you think she’s truly keeping her promises?”

This time, his voice was weak, as if from a frail patient.

Jiyod gazed at the wizard’s dark eyes for a while. They stared at each other in silence.

The wizard broke the silence first.

“Let’s send someone to Karlac through Yofius. Someone who won’t be easily traced… You must know of someone.”

Jiyod, as if he hadn’t heard, simply attached the scabbard to his leather belt. Growing impatient, Ismion repeated himself. Outside the tent, the wind growled fiercely. The wizard continued to ramble on, but the wind and thunder made it sound like another language. The flames inside the lamp flickered precariously due to the wind slipping through the tent.

“…The informant.”

Only after a long while did Jiyod speak.

“What did the informant see, Ismion?”

Though his voice was calm, Ismion detected hesitation within it. The wizard glanced down once before meeting his gaze again.

“Lord Slan is living as a slave under Glenberg. It doesn’t seem like he’s doing any hard labor… it might be as we already know. But… ah, Sir Jiyod. I don’t know! When will this war finally end? This is the sixth time a white flag has been raised. Sir Enrique, Sir Ilis—they’re not here anymore. How much longer do we have to stay here? How many more lives must be lost before this war is over?”

Ismion’s voice trembled as if he were on the verge of tears.

Somewhere, a sound of sobbing echoed.

Or perhaps it was just the sound of the wind.

Hell was not over yet.

Day 663 of Hell

The news of victory from Alto distorted many faces. The civil war in Alto had dragged on for over twenty years, a chronic illness of Karlac. Yet, it was a disease no one wanted to cure.

There was no grand celebration for such an unwelcome victory. Jiyod had entered Karlac Castle very quietly. It had taken more than ten days just to open the gates, so he had to wait outside the outer walls for those ten days.

The chancellor gave him the most northern, isolated building. Ismion had fumed with anger, but Jiyod didn’t mind. He had no particular fond memories of the old Ipsen residence. In fact, he had spent more time at Slan’s quarters. What he regretted, however, was the loss of the little joy he found in waiting secretly for Slan in the camellia pathway or the fountain corridor of the old residence. The new residence was far from Glenberg, and he doubted Slan would ever walk here on his own.

Many things were different from before.

Ismion was deeply dissatisfied, and Lea was even more so. Urkal had appointed himself as the steward of the new Ipsen residence, but not much had changed since.

Since returning to Karlac, Jiyod had asked Lisbeth several times to let him see Slan. The answer was always the same, just as it had been in the past two years of correspondence. “It’s not the right time yet. The Duke of Karlac still doesn’t trust you. Meeting you wouldn’t help Slan’s madness or his memory issues.” Each time he received her reply, Jiyod would read it over and over, then tear it into countless pieces.

Endless sleepless nights, just like before. Endless days in hell.

Whether asleep or lost in a daze, Jiyod couldn’t tell anymore. Every night, he dreamed. Slan was there. Just two steps ahead, tugging at Jiyod’s sleeve. They ran through the passage lined with red camellias, passed under the marble archway, and dashed into the grand fountain corridor. Jiyod could vividly remember the silver embroidery on the collar of the navy blue clothes Slan had worn.

But now, there was no one there.

The marble columns of the corridor were chipped and peeling. At the corner of the corridor, the door leading to the old Ipsen residence was firmly shut. The courtyard was desolate. The fountain was broken, with only a weak trickle of water flowing. Several tiles beneath the fountain were cracked. Thick grains of sand rolled between the broken tiles.

Jiyod wandered there for a long time.

The sun was setting.

At the far end of the western wall, a golden light flickered, and the sky was covered in a purple sunset. A shadow, mixed with violet and blue, stretched over the fountain.

Would Slan remember this place?

The camellia path where he had pulled at Jiyod’s sleeve, the corridor lined with turquoise pillars, the door at the end of the corridor that led to the Ipsen residence. And Jiyod.

Had he forgotten?

And then, he heard footsteps. The very footsteps he had heard countless times in his dreams—hundreds, thousands, tens of thousands, millions of times.

The season of hell had ended.